Technically, since the purpose of this series is to give us all impetus to get up and out of bed at the start of another working week, there’s no need for me to write one of these today, Bank Holiday Monday as it is.
But those of us lucky enough to be a) working from home and b) not considered to be a key worker, there’s no rush today.
(By key worker I don’t just mean those working in the NHS – I mean them, of course, just not just them – I mean all those who are continuing to work throughout the current corona-crisis: our retail workers, stocking the shelves and then apologising when they’ve run out of bread, pasta, rice, toilet roll (although, is it just me, or have things been getting better on this front recently?); or postmen and women, diligently delivering all the crap we’ve bought online when bored/drunk/delete as applicable; our refuse workers, carrying away all of the packaging which encases the stuff we’ve bought etc etc etc.)
So, today, a balls-out 70s classic, guaranteed to make you want to shake your booty.
Ok, so it’s lyrically “of it’s time” and most definitely not on point with the whole #MeToo movement.
And strictly speaking, it’s a late night song. Well, it is for me anyway.
I’ll explain.
Back when I lived in Cardiff, I would often frequent Barfly on either a Friday or a Saturday night, a teensy tiny little indie venue, downstairs in a place opposite the castle that stayed open until or 2 or 3 in the morning. I’ve no idea if it’s still there or not, but I loved going there. Often there would be a band on, and I saw many wonderful acts there: Young Knives, The Dears, Graham Coxon, Cud, (ahem) Jet. Loads more that I can’t recall right now. (But yeh, I did remember Jet. Suck it up.)
Anyway, obviously there was the obligatory indie disco when bands weren’t playing, and, as the night went on and the club emptied I would inevitably sidle up to the DJ and ask him if he had his last record of the night sorted yet. He, equally inevitably, would look at me totally non-plussed and tell me he hadn’t. He didn’t need to ask what I was going to suggest, not because he knew what it would be, just that there was a request coming.
“Well, can I make a suggestion….?” I would proffer, and since by this time the venue had practically emptied, leaving just me, a couple of bearded alcoholics propping up the bar and taking full advantage of the late-night serving, and a gaggle of goths at the back of the room, none of whom were likely to dance, he would (inevitably, wearily) say: “Go on….”.
And I would suggest this record, and he’d play it, and I’d spend the last 4:40 seconds of my night out (excluding walking home or trying to flag a taxi down time), whirling around an otherwise empty dancefloor, trotting out every rock’n’roll trope you could name.
It’s a song which has more false endings than the bloopers reel on Smokey and the Bandit, so a new homage would commence with each: Pete Townsend’s helicopter whirl? Check. Chuck Berry’s duck-walk? Check. Quo’s legs astride heads down head-bang? Check. Morrissey’s finger-holding-hearing-aid-in-ear-whilst-brandishing-imaginary-gladioli? Check.
Shall I just play it and shut up?
More soon.
A History of Dubious Taste 